Marriage Seasons 01 - It Happens Every Spring (2 page)

There's nothing like a good story! I'm excited to be working with Catherine
Palmer on a fiction series based on the concepts in my book The Four Seasons of
Marriage. You hold in your hands the first book in this series.

My experience, both in my own marriage and in counseling couples for more
than thirty years, suggests that marriages are always moving from one season to
another. Sometimes we find ourselves in winter-discouraged, detached, and dissatisfied. Other times we experience springtime, with its openness, hope, and
anticipation. On still other occasions we bask in the warmth of summer-comfortable, relaxed, enjoying life. And then comes fall with its uncertainty, negligence, and apprehension. The cycle repeats itself many times throughout the life
of a marriage, just as the seasons repeat themselves in nature. These concepts are
described in The Four Seasons of Marriage, along with seven proven strategies to
help couples move away from the unsettledness of fall or the alienation and coldness of winter toward the hopefulness of spring or the warmth and closeness of
summer.

Combining what I've learned in my counseling practice with Catherine's
excellent writing skills has led to this series of four novels. In the lives of the characters you'll meet in these pages, you will see the choices I have observed people
making over and over again through the years, the value of caring friends and
neighbors, and the hope of marriages moving to a new and more pleasant season.

In It Happens Every Spring and the stories that will follow it, you will meet
newlyweds, blended families, couples who are deep in the throes of empty-nest
adjustment, and senior couples. Our hope is that you will see yourself or someone
you know in these characters. If you are hurting, this book can give you hopeand some ideas for making things better. Be sure to check out the discussion questions at the end of the book for further ideas.

And whatever season you're in, I know you'll enjoy the people and the stories
in Deepwater Cove.

Gary D. Chapman, PhD

One evening after a book-signing event, I was sitting at a restaurant with CC
McClure, manager of Downtown Book and Toy in Jefferson City, Missouri. After
I had related several stories about my life in a small community on the Lake of the
Ozarks, she suddenly stopped me and asked, "Why aren't you writing about the
lake?" Well, because I hadn't thought of it ... and I probably never would have if
CC hadn't suggested the idea. In fact, I might have forgotten all about it, but a few
weeks later, a note came from CC again urging me to write about the lake. So, dear
friend, here's your book. And thank you so very much!

Through the process of writing It Happens Every Spring, many people encouraged
and supported me. On a summer afternoon in Denver, the Lord led Dr. Gary
Chapman-a complete stranger to me at the time-right into my path on a
crowded conference-room floor and cleared the way for us to discuss the idea of
partnering on a writing project. Thank you, Gary, for embracing the vision that
your God-given concept of The Four Seasons of Marriage and the seven strategies
for healing broken marriages could come alive through fiction. What a joy it is to
partner with you in this project!

Ron Beers and Karen Watson of Tyndale House Publishers first had the foresight
to pair a nonfiction author with a novelist. I am so grateful for your hard work in
taking this fiction series from concept to reality. Kathy Olson, my amazing editor,
is a gift from God. I can write with confidence, knowing she will help shape my
words into a storyworth reading. My deep thanks to everyone at Tyndale: marketing, sales team, public relations, warehouse, and all who partner with me in this
ministry.

My family provides the cocoon in which I feel safe to dream, plot, and write.
Thank you, Tim, for nearly thirty years of marriage. How grateful I am that your
careful pen edits each word of my manuscript before it goes into the mail. Bless
you for taking on so many responsibilities at home so that I can be free to work.
Geoffrey and Andrei, I am so proud of my two sons-heavenly miracles, both of
you. I love you all so much.

Catherine Palmer

The night lightning struck a power pole on the west side of Lake of
the Ozarks, Patsy Pringle knew right away there would be trouble
in Deepwater Cove. The sizzling bolt of brilliant radiance brought
a deafening clap of thunder and knocked out the electricity in all of
the neighborhood's twenty-three houses. Lightbulbs blinked off,
computers fried, televisions died, and dogs scooted on their bellies
to hide under beds.

Up the road from the cove, at the Just As I Am beauty salon in
the little town of Tranquility, Missouri, the blow-dryer in Patsy's
hand whined down to nothing, bringing Esther Moore's weekly
set-and-style appointment to a sudden end.

"Well, I'll be," Patsy said. "Good thing you were my last
appointment of the day. I'm going to have to shut her down."

"Nuts," Esther muttered as she patted her damp hair. "I'd better
head home and rescue Charlie. My husband couldn't find a candle
with a search warrant."

Patsy fished a flashlight from the drawer at her styling station
and snapped it on. As she helped the older woman locate her purse
and keys, she worried about the widows in the neighborhood. Deepwater Cove was home to seven of them, ranging in age from
sixty-three to ninety-four. This early in March, many would have
had their electric heaters on during the storm. She hoped they
could find enough blankets to stay warm.

"I'll bet Boofer is beside himself," Esther said. "That mutt is too
fat to get behind the sofa these days. He'll be howling and Charlie
will be bumping his bony old knees on the coffee table trying to
find the dog. The power company probably won't get the lights
back on for hours. They never do. Well, bye, Patsy. Charlie will be
itching to get out in his golf cart and check on the neighbors."

"Tell him to be careful," Patsy warned. "The rain is starting to
freeze up."

She frowned as she pictured the elderly man maneuvering icy,
narrow roads in the lake community's preferred mode of transportation. Deepwater Cove boasted fifteen golf carts, though the
nearest eighteen-hole course was all the way over in Osage Beach.
A reliable golf cart could carry a fishing pole, a tackle box, a minnow bucket, a stringer of crappie, and a dog. It could get a person
to the lakeshore, the mailbox, a neighbor's house, or clear around
the cove and back again. The logic was simple, Patsy acknowledged. If a golf cart could take you somewhere, why walk?

As she raised an umbrella and led Esther Moore through the
driving downpour toward her car, it occurred to Patsy that right
away both women had worried about the neighbors. Plenty of
other things could have come to mind-drainage ditches overflowing, roofs leaking, tree limbs snapping off in the wind. But, no,
the people were first. Of course neighbors would check on each
other. That's just how it was in Deepwater Cove.

"A little storm won't stop Charlie once he gets out in his cart,"
Esther shouted over the howling wind. " `Neither snow, nor rain,
nor heat, nor gloom of night stays these couriers from the swift
completion of their appointed rounds'-if I heard that once, I
heard it a million times. Charlie wasn't a mailman all those years
for nothing."

Brenda Hansen was in the basement painting a dining-room chair
when lightning struck the electric pole right outside her house on
Sunnyslope Lane in Deepwater Cove. Startled by the peal of thunder and the sparks shooting through the darkness, she dropped her
paintbrush on the floor. The cat, who had been curled up with his
tail over his nose in the cold room, yowled, leaped straight up, and
landed with all four feet in the tray of pink paint. The instant his
paws hit the chilly liquid, he squalled again, bounded out of the
tray, and darted for cover.

"Oh, Ozzie, now what?" Still jumpy from the earsplitting thunder, Brenda looked toward the electric pole.

A man stood just outside the basement's sliding glass door. Tall,
thin, dark. Another burst of zigzag light brightened the sky, and
she saw his beard and long hair and dripping pants. He was staring
at her.

"Steve!" she cried out. Realizing instantly that of course her husband wasn't home, she ran for the stairs and grabbed the rail. Falling, stumbling, scraping her shins, Brenda catapulted herself up to
the main floor of the house. "Lord, help me. Lord, Lord, please
help me," she prayed out loud as she felt her way through the living
room in the dark.

Had she locked the basement door earlier today? No, she had
pushed back the glass and pulled the screen across to let in fresh air
and ventilate the paint fumes. What if the man was inside already?
What if he came after her? Was that him following her up the
stairs?

Brenda couldn't see a thing as she lurched across the tiled foyer.
Just as she reached for the dead bolt, someone pounded on the large,
double-paned window set into the insulated-steel front door.

It was him.

She could just make out his shape-towering and unkempt on the porch. She slammed the bolt and fell back against the wall,
sure she was going to be sick.

Where was the cell phone? How soon could the sheriff get to
Deepwater Cove? Eight minutes, someone had told her once. Just
long enough for a person to die.

"Knock, knock, who's there?" The voice outside the front door
was deep, male, and eerily loud. Though the thermal window in
the door kept out the weather, it certainly didn't buffer the sound
of the man's words as he called to her, "It's me, Cody!"

Brenda shut her eyes and swallowed. She didn't know anyone
named Cody. Especially not a tall, bearded, serial strangler who
roamed quiet lakeside neighborhoods on rainy nights. She should
run down to the basement again, pull the sliding glass door shut,
and try to lock it.

"I can see you right there," the man called over another roll of
thunder. "Hi, I'm Cody!"

Brenda pressed her back against the foyer wall and began to
slide away from the door. Where was Steve when she needed him?
Off showing a house to someone in the middle of a spring thunderstorm. He would come home with a big sale under his belt and find
his wife lying in the foyer, murdered.

"Do you have any chocolate cake?" the man outside asked, tapping more softly on the window. "I'm hungry, and I like chocolate
cake. A lot. Triangles are okay, but I like squares better. Because
you get more icing thataway."

Brenda thought her cell phone was probably in her purse. She
couldn't remember the last time she had called anyone. Or gone
shopping, for that matter. Life had been so empty lately. She hadn't
had a reason to pick up her purse in days, but she always kept it on
a low table in the foyer. She took a sideways step along the wall.

"Can you hear me, because I'm asking about chocolate cake."
The man tapped on the window again. "Because I'm wet and hungry. My daddy told me that anyone might give you food, but only a
Christian would give you chocolate cake, too."

Her heart thumping half out of her chest, Brenda glanced at the
window in the front door. The man had cupped both hands
against the glass and was peering at her through them.

"No!" She shook her head furtively, unwilling to look at him but
unable to stop herself. "Go away!"

"Are you a Christian?" he asked. The question held a plaintive
note. Another flash of lightning made his long, tangled hair glow.
He had blue eyes and filthy teeth. "I'm hungry."

She shook her head again. "Go! Shoo! Get away from my door!"

"Okay." He drawled out the word in a Missouri backwoods
accent. Oh-kye.

As the man's shoulders sagged and he turned away, Brenda
lunged for the corner of the foyer. In the darkness, she knocked
over the hall table, discovered her purse wasn't there, and curled
up in a ball on the frigid tile floor.